


Old Jim

by zorotokon



Category: Zootopia (2016)
Genre: Bad Weather, Gen, OCs - Freeform, Slice of Life, Surly Old Drunk, TT
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-23
Updated: 2017-06-23
Packaged: 2018-11-17 22:44:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,032
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11278305
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zorotokon/pseuds/zorotokon
Summary: Drink away your woes at the Troubles pub, only authentic brew pub in the city to still serve the finest piss egregiously miss-labeled as beer. The Chief of ZPD Central found some solace there, mostly because not a living soul would have thought that he would. Tonight, however, he wasn’t alone, for a certain fat receptionist had niggled and wiggled, and eventually just had to flat-out beg on his knees, his way into joining him for one night of drinking.





	Old Jim

Troubles was the kind of bar you went to when you needed to be up at six tomorrow, but sure as hell weren’t going to make it without at least two drinks tonight. The bartender knew how strong you liked your whiskey, and how to pour just a little more into every glass. The band, when they could get one, wouldn’t be out of place in a garage, on a fishing boat, or in a retirement home. The floor was sticky in the same way it was sticky last time, so at least it was familiar. The stools bit into your ass like they knew you loved it, and the old angry drunk at the bar kept his fists and comments to himself, mostly.

It was pouring like God himself was taking the piss on Zootopia when a pair of animals snuck into the place, collars up against the rain.

“Bogo,” the bartender didn’t even have to look up to greet the new arrivals. He didn’t have anything better to do either as the place was nigh empty save for Chief Bogo, his charge, Old Jim at the end of the bar, and a pair of beavers who looked like they’d been hit by every branch on the sorrows tree when it had fallen on them. “Who’s your friend?”

“Gus, meet Clawhauser, Clawhauser, meet Gus,” the cheetah nodded at Gus in greeting. He’d finagled his way to being allowed to come to Bogo’s secret drinking spot on two conditions: The first, if he kept his mouth shut, and the second, if didn’t even think about a certain pop star.

Gus returned the nod. “What can I get you two?”

“Two dark brews,” Bogo slid a twenty out of his wallet and onto the counter, Clawhauser could only guess this was the kind of place that didn’t believe in tabs. “And I’ve got Jim’s next.”

Gus swiped the money and replaced it with two tall glasses that bulged at the top, each filled with a deep brown liquid with a coffee-cream colored head. The change came back $5, and there were some events in his life that Clawhauser could not allow to go without comment. Inappropriately priced booze was one of them.

“Seven and a half for a beer is a bit steep for a place like this.”

“They’re five,” Bogo took a sip, relaxing slightly as the familiar taste really sank the fact in that he was off work, “I covered yours, and Jim’s.” He pushed a hoof along the bar, indicating the mammal sitting at the very end of it. Half propped up on the counter, and half supported by the wall was Jim. ‘Jim’ was a capybara in a battered coat, beaten hat, and patched pants. His species was known for their friendliness. His expression made it clear that you’d been misinformed.

Clawhauser took a sip of his beer. It almost tasted like a chocolate bar, if you wrapped it in a wet sock and left it in the woods for a couple of weeks, but in a good way. It wasn’t exactly a piña colada, but it wasn’t half bad either. The two watched the game and sipped their beers, content to simply let time pass them by.

This lull in activity was just what Clawhauser had been waiting for. Chief Bogo was an enigma to the precinct. His record was clean as a whistle, and no one had ever run into him outside of work, even when Fangmeyer and Francine got the brilliant idea to tail his cruiser.

He’d lost them in two blocks.

No one even knew if there was a Mrs. Chief Bogo, or a little Chief Bogo Jr running around scowling at the other children. That’s why he was here, to learn all of Bogo’s dirty little secrets that would prove once and for all that he was an animal, and not a police cyborg from the future, like some sort of RoboCow. He would just need to get the Chief a little liquored up first, then he’d be putty in his paws.

“So…” he started.

“You agreed to be silent.”

Bogo’s reprimand shut Clawhauser up long enough for them to both finish their beers. Bogo’s stern look slowly faded into a hint of a smile by the bottom of his glass, while Clawhauser spent the time staring straight forward, forcing half his willpower into not talking, and the other half into not gawking like a tourist.

Gus came by again, “More of the same?” Bogo nodded, Clawhauser nodded. Gus didn’t move. Bogo elbowed Clawhauser. Clawhauser gave him a confused look. Gus looked at Clawhauser. Bogo looked straight ahead.

“Oh, right, right!” Clawhauser fumbled for his wallet and pulled out his own twenty, which Gus turned into two beers, and a tenner.

“Oh, and, one for Jim.” Clawhauser added before Gus could disappear to wherever it is that bartender’s go when your drink is empty, your date is bored, and you’ve looked one too many times at the list of pick-up lines on your phone to play it off. Gus swiped the ten and replaced it with a five.

Bogo gave his dispatcher a slap on the back and one of his rare genuine smiles. “One question, I think you’ve earned it.”

 _When did you know you first loved Gazelle? Will you host my birthday party? What is your shirt size? Have you ever killed a man with just your horns? What about your hooves? What’s your favorite ice cream flavor?_ Clawhauser’s mind was filled with hundreds of similarly inane questions to ask the Chief, but either it was the beer hitting him, or the aura of genuine respect from Bogo, but for some reason, he was able to push them all away. “Who’s Jim?”

Bogo nodded at the question, then lowered his voice. “That’s Old Jim to you.” Clawhauser had no idea if he was joking. “Capybara at the end of the bar, looks like he’d lay you flat for asking the time. Been here ever since I’ve started coming, place wouldn’t feel right without him.”

Clawhauser stayed silent, hoping that Bogo would continue without prompting, he had only earned one question after all.

“Think he’s at least in his sixties, was in the, mmm, never mind.” Bogo cut himself off.

“Nobody likes Old Jim,” Gus said as he reappeared, “not even me.”

“Then why did we just buy him two rounds?” Clawhauser couldn’t stop that one either. Bogo shrugged.

“Because that’s what you do. You buy one for you, one for your drinking buddy, and one for Jim.”

Clawhauser was doing some serious mental gymnastics to parse this new information, and with a mammal of Clawhauser’s size, you wanted to stand far back when he was attempting gymnastics.

“So, is he, like, the bouncer?”

Both Gus and Bogo laughed, although Clawhauser had difficulty telling who was being more sarcastic.

“I’m pretty sure a bouncer would throw Jim out soon as he saw him,” said Bogo.

“I can hear you,” Old Jim finally spoke from the end of the bar. His voice was gravely, yet soft, like he had once been a choir boy, but spent each other waking moment behind the church chain smoking and gargling gravel.

“I don’t care, Jim.” Bogo didn’t even look at Jim when he replied. Now that Clawhauser had been giving an excuse to ogle the capybara, he saw that Jim was looking straight ahead too. He doubted he’d even turned to look at the Chief when he spoke.

The cheetah lowered his voice. He might be a cop, and with Bogo, but no sense treading on toes you don’t need to be treading on. “So, what does he do here?”

“Drinks, eats, farts, and beats the shit out of anyone stupid enough to talk about him behind his back.” Jim replied.

Clawhauser’s ears went back, and he wordlessly handed Gus his last fiver, and pointed in the capybara’s general direction. The conversation died as the animals focused on drinking themselves into tomorrow. The beavers were the first to leave, their quiet argument turning into a loud fistfight immediately outside the door. Gus just shut it behind them.

“We’re off duty,” Bogo declared out of the side of his mouth when Clawhauser went to break it up. The cheetah sat back down and finished his beer.

Bogo bought the next round. One for him, one for Clawhauser, one for Jim.

“Has he ever said ‘thank you’ at least?” Clawhauser asked between sips.

“Not to anyone I know,” Bogo replied.

The wind had turned the rain sideways and Gus was rushing around the place, cursing as he slammed windows shut and put buckets under drips. When he had closed the last window and sealed the last leak the bar was eerily quiet. Clawhauser could hear him and Bogo’s breathing clear as twin bellows. His was faster and higher pitched, while the Chief’s was a low rumbling that seemed to take minutes for a single exhale.

Gus had disappeared, and Jim was working on his next beer. The glass rattled against the bar in his paw. Clawhauser snuck a look to catch him steadying his arm, bringing both paws up, only to almost shake the beer out, and put it back down in defeat. He repeated this process twice more before Clawhauser had to look away.

The tinkle of the glass on Jim’s short claws did not stop, and the two policemammals focused solely on the television above them.

One of the windows at the front slammed open like a bomb going off and every animal jumped. Bogo ran to it, trying forcing it closed against the gale. Clawhauser clutched at his heart, not built for this kind of excitement. When he finally turned back to the counter, Jim was standing on it.

The capybara’s breath was ragged, and he was holding his cane out in front of him like a rifle. He was mumbling something, repeating the same words over and over and over. Bogo finished securing the window and the quiet returned, but Clawhauser wished it hadn’t.

“Andre, Michael, Mort, Angus, Kevin. Andre, Michael, Mort, Angus, Kevin…” Jim repeated the five names in a trance like state, his eyes never leaving some unseen point above the other mammal’s heads.

“Jim, sit the fuck down.” Gus had returned, and that seemed to break the spell on the capybara, who lost the strength he had suddenly found, and collapsed back into his corner, moaning over his suddenly aching legs.

“Good night, Gus,” Bogo stood, and Clawhauser followed him out, turning to wave at the animals remaining. Neither one even acknowledged they had left.

 

“Jim, I’m closing up,” Gus said, more hop in his voice than he felt.

“One for the road?” Jim asked.

“You gonna pay for it this time?”

“You know me-”

“So no,” Gus suppressed an exasperated sigh as he cleaned up what little grime the bar had sustained from the tiny hoofful of customers that had come in from the rain.

Jim shrugged and made no indication he was going to get up or pay for his ‘one for the road.’

“Look, I really need you to leave this time.”

“’S raining.”

“I know, but if my boss catches you in here again after my shift…”

“’S raining hard.”

Gus turned away from the capybara, he had to. It was under the guise of making himself a cabbage wrap, but he could feel those tired, blank eyes on him every second. He made an extra, _For tomorrow,_ he lied. He left it in the beer fridge, the one with the clear front, where Jim could see it.

“I’m going home, Jim. You can’t stay here, but I’m not going to take you with me.” Gus knew he was going to regret this. He always did with Jim, but it was Old Jim. That’s just what you did. “But the backdoor has a busted lock. I’m opening tomorrow at 4, if I catch hide or hair of you-”

Jim saluted, “I’ll be moonshine.”

Gus went out the front, he could never look at Jim, even when he was in a good mood. No one likes a broken man.

**Author's Note:**

> One kudos = one drink for Old Jim. Done on a whim in one night for the Bad Weather TT after coming up with some characters with Paranon.


End file.
